


Lotus Corniculatus

by pitchpatronus



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pitchpatronus/pseuds/pitchpatronus
Summary: Currently rated M for future contentThis is the first chapter of what I hope becomes a much longer piece! I’ll be posting future chapters as I write them. Thanks for reading!A HUGE thank you to @sourcherrymagiks and @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for being my very excellent betas.For updates and art, visit my tumblr: pitchpatronus.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Lotus Corniculatus

**Author's Note:**

> Currently rated M for future content
> 
> This is the first chapter of what I hope becomes a much longer piece! I’ll be posting future chapters as I write them. Thanks for reading!
> 
> A HUGE thank you to @sourcherrymagiks and @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for being my very excellent betas.
> 
> For updates and art, visit my tumblr: pitchpatronus.

“This is my favorite kind of day,” Simon states out of the blue. We’ve been walking together in companionable silence, swinging our held hands gently between us. I’ve been listening to the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle lapping of the moat, and beyond that, the low murmur of students’ voices. I don’t think Simon can hear that, though.

“Why is that?” I ask.

“It’s perfect,” he says. He lets go of my hand briefly to stretch his arms above his head, reaching toward the sun that makes his curls glow like gold in the light. “It’s Watford Weather,” he admits with a sheepish smile.

“Watford Weather,” I repeat.

“Mm-hm. Watford is the best in autumn. It’s not too cold, but not too hot. It’s the perfect weather to be outdoors. And the sky is so blue it almost hurts.” I can’t look away from the blue of his eyes as they reflect the cloudless sky, framed by those golden curls. I know we’re at Watford together, but Simon doesn’t look the way he did at Watford. He looks like Simon _now_ —solid, cared for, and with a hint of lines that crinkle at the corners of his eyes. 

“You’re right, it is utter perfection,” I say, then grin. “Watford Weather.”

He pauses to turn to the sun once more, a smile spreading across his freckled face. Then he looks at me and holds out his hand in invitation.

“Let’s go, though. I don’t want to be late.”

I take his hand and we continue walking, more purposefully than before. I frown to myself. My gut tells me that I agree with Snow—I don’t want to be late, either—but I can’t remember why. I rack my brain trying to think of why Snow and I are at Watford, but keep coming up empty. Simon just keeps walking like he’s on a mission, and his confidence unnerves me even more. Why don’t I remember what we’re doing?

Suddenly, we’re at the Weeping Tower. Well, what I know _should_ be the Weeping Tower, only for some strange reason it looks like the family estate in Hampshire. Upon seeing it, clarity rushes into my mind. It’s like I’ve always known why we came here. I hold the door for Simon and usher him in. The interior doesn’t look like the foyer of the Hampshire manor. Now we really are on the ground floor of the Weeping Tower.

“She wouldn’t care if you were a few minutes late, you know,” I say as we start up the curving stairs.

“You say that,” he responds, already a bit winded from our climb. “You’re not the boyfriend. She’s, like, the most powerful mage ever, _plus_ she’s the headmistress, _plus_ I’m dating her son. Impressions kinda matter here.”

My insides twist up with pride and something bittersweet.

“Are you saying my mother intimidates you, Snow?”

“I’m just saying you got it from somewhere,” he says. I smirk back at him and pass another landing. I swear we’ve been climbing these stairs for hours. Have there always been this many?

Just as I’m wondering this, we reach the final landing at the top. A long hallway stretches before us, an ornate red carpet running the length of it. Portraits of Watford’s former headmasters line the walls. My heart starts beating faster in my chest, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the record climb I just finished. I swallow thickly and put one foot in front of the other. My footsteps seem louder than normal in my ears, and the more steps I take, the more the hallway seems to elongate before me. I breathe through my nose. In. Out. And come to a stop in front of the ancient, carved door.

The hammering in my chest is almost too much to take, but I reach out and grasp the door knob in my cold, clammy hand. I turn it slowly and silently, and hold my breath as I start to push the door open and turn to Simon—

Who isn’t there anymore.

“ _Snow_ ,” I call.

“Hello, darling.”

I’m no longer in the hallway, holding the door knob. I’m standing in the headmaster’s office. A fire blazes in the grate of the fireplace, casting everything in a warm, comforting glow. The walls are lined with books of all sizes and ages, and I start to recite the titles by heart: _Theories of Magick, Artifacts of the Ancient World_ , _The Collected Works of Homer_ . The carpet near the hearth is littered with a collection of toy horses and knights. _Mother told me to tidy them up when I was finished playing_.

And there, standing in the middle of the room like Galatea come to life, is my mother. 

“Are you quite alright, Little Puff?” she asks, and her voice is low and soft as worn velvet. She’s wearing black trousers and a silk tunic with gold embroidery that glows in the firelight. I try to look at her face, but can’t. Every time it starts to come into focus, it blurs out again and I have to look away.

“Mother,” I breathe. I’m enveloped in an embrace that smells like cinnamon and bonfire and palo santo. I’m surrounded by her warmth and scent, and she’s somehow larger than me, so that I can bury my face in the join of her arm and soft chest.

“You have to find him, Darling,” she says as she strokes my hair.

“Who?”

“Find him,” she repeats.

“ _Who_ , Mother?” Her warm embrace begins to feel uncomfortably hot. “ _Mother_ , find _who?_ ”

“Find him!” She repeats again, with urgency, her hands squeezing my arms painfully. It’s so hot I can’t breathe. I look up and the flames from the grate have surrounded us on all sides, licking their way closer and closer.

“ _Find him, Basil_ ,” Mother urges. Her voice is becoming more distant, and the sound of the fire roars in my ears. There are sinister shadows lurking beyond the inferno. We’re no longer in the headmaster’s office. We’re in the Watford nursery. My eyes sting. I can’t _breathe!_

“ _Find him!”_ she shouts as the flames overtake her, twisting into a column of fire that threatens to devour me next. “ _FIND HIM!_ ”

I lurch forward, chest heaving as I suck in lungfuls of cool air, scrabbling frantically at the sheets that bind me. I’m gasping loudly ( _sobbing_ , I realize) as I look frantically around the dark bedroom. My bedroom. _Our_ bedroom, mine and Simon’s. In our flat, with Simon’s disgusting pile of dirty clothes next to the hamper. As reality sets in, I become aware of Simon’s hand, hot on my shoulder blade, and his voice in my ear.

“That’s it, Baz. Breathe. Just Breathe.” I huff through my nose to try to slow my painful, panicked breathing, and exhale shakily through my mouth.

“That’s good,” Simon coaches. “Keep doing that.” I do. I start to feel my stomach muscles unclench. My fangs retract. I swipe at my eyes, rake a shaky hand over my sweaty face.

“You okay?” Simon asks. I nod. “C’mere,” he says. He lays back against the pillows and opens his arms to me. After a moment, I ease myself into them, feeling unsteady as a newborn foal. I settle my head into the crook of his neck, and his fingers begin combing gently through my hair as his other hand brushes soothing patterns into my bicep.

Eventually, I feel his movements slow as he relaxes back into sleep. But I don’t. I can’t stop thinking about cinnamon and palo santo. I can’t stop feeling the remnants of fear brought on by those warped shadows. I can’t stop the voice that keeps echoing through my brain, husky and soft.

_Find him, Basil. Find him._


End file.
